


Uncoiled

by they_call_it_a_halo



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Neglect, This is angsty as fuck, and cheech is a literal dad in this, but seriously this is hector's big crash of the century, so that's nice I guess, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 19:52:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14655003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/they_call_it_a_halo/pseuds/they_call_it_a_halo
Summary: Partly inspired by BabyCharmander (bcdrawsandwrites on tumblr) and the head canon that Hèctor smashed his guitar when he realized that Imelda was not going to forgive him, and the blow he took to his guts when she didn’t.





	Uncoiled

**Author's Note:**

> Based upon this headcanon:   
> Hèctor stopped considering himself a musician after Imelda arrived in the Land of the Dead; he had gotten a somewhat decent charro suit from Ceci, grabbed his second-hand guitar and went to her, to beg for her forgiveness, but she blank out rejected him. He had spent some fifty years planning exactly what to say to her, how to reach her, but when the moment finally came, she wanted nothing to do with him.   
> When he came back to the Shanties, he went silently into his shack, took a few deep breaths, and then smashed his guitar to a million pieces.

Chicharrón had never been very wise. Smart and snappy, perhaps, but he had lived long enough, both in life and in death, to know that enlightenment isn’t something to be brought to you on a silver platter; you wanna cast some light on your blind spots, you’ve gotta use your own eyes. Which meant, in short, that Cheech was someone reacted rather than reflected.

So when the grand family of Shantytown from time to time tried talking some sense into their cheerful, ambitious _primo_ Hèctor for trying to cross the bridge, _again_ , for having such high hopes, for _believing and believing and believing_ that _this_ year, this year he would be able to go, this year for sure- Chicharrón kept silent. 

Sure, he did what little he could to provide for those ridiculous schemes; be it a costume, a wig, colourful paint (and as the years went on and Hèctor grew more desperate), a femur, his van (which now was no more than scrap metal), whatever he thought was going to let him cross.  
He did that, and he always watched the younger man- _too young, way too young_ \- leaving for the Marigold Central Station with his accessories and his aids, jittery and confident and so damn driven. But he never said a word. 

Not when Hèctor would come back either, with a hapless shrug and a crooked smile and a “ _Ay, maybe next year_ ,” as he dropped to a seat amidst the nearly-forgotten people waiting for him by the fire, his guitar already in his hands seconds later. Chicharrón, however, never failed to notice how Hèctor’s walk was never as confident, his back never as straight as when he had left.  
Some of them, especially the older _primas_ and _tías_ , would sometimes try to comfort him. Others still would click a tongue they no longer had, and try to tell him that _sometimes, there’s no more you can do, amigo, that’s afterlife for you_.  
But Chicarrón never spoke. Not because he had nothing to say ( _ay Dios_ , there were so many things he would like to say, to _yell_ ), but because he knew that Hèctor took none of it in, not the words of encouragement, not the harsh speeches: He was already back to the blueprints in his mind, already planning, already one step closer to being with his family. 

The only time Chicharrón didn’t think he would be able to stick to his principle was the year when Hèctor’s wife (“Imelda, _ay Dios mio, Cheech, have you ever heard of a more beautiful name?_ ”) had arrived at the Land of the Dead. Héctor had almost seemed to fly over the wooden boardwalks of the Shanties, his guitar raised high as to not get it wet from the splashes of muddy waters beneath him, his almost new suit looking so oddly misplaced among so many fading colours, and the sound of his voice (“ _Wish me luck, muchachos!_ ”) almost carrying long after he was gone. 

When he came back from town, Hèctor looked, for the very first time in the years Cheech had known him, like someone who belonged in the town of the forgotten.

They had all fallen silent in their tracks as the young _músico_ had walked the long and wobbly jetty towards them, its foundation sloshy under his heaving steps, his guitar hanging from his limb arm like a heavy prosthetic, creating a jarring, hollow sound as it was dragged along the uneven wooden boards behind him. A stark contrast to the tunes he was otherwise able to wring from it. 

_Tía Lupe_ , who had always thought that Hèctor reminded her of her estranged son, had made a movement to get up from her seat, but Chicharrón had held up his hand to still her, only just catching her eyes and softly shaking his head.  
Hèctor hadn’t registered the movements. He didn’t seem aware that they were all there, trailing him with their pitiful eyes as he walked past them without a word. His gaze was empty, as if everything in him had been stored away, buried, and his face was lowered towards the ground. Chicharrón worried for a moment that the boy ( _he really was just a_ boy) wouldn’t be able to let his legs do the job of getting him all the way to his shack; _should that be the case_ , Cheech thought, _I’ll carry him myself_.  
But to the shack Hèctor came, and in the same absent minded manner, he pushed the frayed curtain aside and pulled it shut behind him. 

And stayed in there for a month. 

When Chicharrón had finally had enough and dragged him out, he didn’t fail to notice the guitar that had been smashed into pieces which were now scattered on the floor, nor the numerous empty and broken bottles that lay all over the room. Hèctor himself had curled up in a corner, unresponsive to such a degree that it took Cheech several attempts (his cane coming in handy) to get a reaction, a glimpse of recognition, _anything_ , out of him. 

When Hèctor finally lifted his head to look at Chicharrón, there was no doubt that something in the boy had gone missing. Gotten lost somewhere between his newly departed wife’s house and the endlessly long walk back to Shantytown, shame and guilt and rejection eating away until there wasn’t much left. Hèctor had broken like the instrument he had treasured so dearly, and Chicarrón, who was no stranger to the corrosive swamp of defeat and abandonment, knew that no words could put him back together.  
He didn’t let that stop him from pulling the younger man, who had always been more _hijo_ than _primo_ , to his feet and half-carry him out of the shack. 

He kept his mouth shut even when they were just the two of them in Chicharrón’s bungalow, except for a few directive words to get Hèctor inside, to get him to _sit down, venga, niño, I can’t carry you around forever_. The frail skeleton was slumped unto a chair, his long limbs rattling, and Cheech went to his cupboard to pour them a shot of tequila. Then he caught himself, and shot a quick glance over his shoulder: Hèctor, with his glassy, absent gaze and trembling frame, had probably lived off little else for the past month.  
_Right_ , Cheech thought, _no booze_.  
Instead, he stood fidgeting with the bottle cap for a moment, not really sure how to approach. He had always known that Hèctor, at some point, would hit a low. That he had let himself ride the wave too far out, that he had stayed on his high of denial for too long, and that eventually, he would come crashing down. Chicharrón wasn’t surprised, not in the slightest; it was almost a criteria for joining the gigantic, self-made family of Shantytown.  
It wasn’t unexpected, but it was still painful to witness.  
And it made him feel guilty.

There was a raspy, jarring sound behind him, like someone dragging their nails over a cracked, splintered wooden surface. Chicharrón turned. 

“Ccc-Cccc-” 

“ _Oye, niño_ ,” Cheech limped his way back to the table, trying to catch the younger man’s eyes. But Hèctor wasn’t there. His round, big eyes saw not the room, or the older man whom he considered one of his closest friend, in death and in life. His mind could focus on but one thing, and it orbited that thing, that memory, like a moon would a planet.  
Or a planet would a sun. 

“C-co..Co. Coco.” 

“ _Hèctor_.” The butt of his cane came down on the floor as to underscore Chicharrón’s voice. The young man flinched.  
_Good_ , Cheech told himself, _so he_ can _hear me_.  
With a few last limps with his cane, Chicharrón came to a halt beside Hèctor. With a sting, Cheech noticed that the much too young bones had begun to yellow and tarnish.  
He realized, for the first time, (because Hèctor was always so cheerful, so juvenile, still so full of life, a true spirit) that death may had claimed him in a far too young age, much sooner than most of the inhabitants of the Shanties, but the fact was that he had been here for some _fifty years_ now, which was way above average for someone who had no family. Cast out. Forgotten.  
Chicharrón still had nothing to say. Even if he had, what good would it do?

“Coco,” Hèctor rasped, ” _Coco_.” 

Five decades. The first time you were denied access to the bridge was a downright nightmare, and it left you with a horrible, horrible feeling where your gut used to be. Cheech remembered his first Dia de los Muertos as a Forgotten, and how _ugly_ it had felt, how wrong. Most stopped trying after a few years.

Not Hèctor. He had spent his the first ten years, and then the next, and the next, and the next with his head in a cloud, in complete denial, and at times with frenzied eyes and reckless bones.  
He had spent fifty years being dragged away from the only thing that mattered by guards or the police (on those occasion, he would be spending a couple of nights in jail), denied seeing his daughter, denied watching her grow up, time and time and time again.  
Never once suspecting, or fearing that when the time came, his wife would do exactly the same.  
No, Chicharrón didn’t need Hèctor to tell him what had happened. It came as a surprise, really, to one one but this foolish boy, that you don’t get left off an _ofrenda_ by your entire family for half a century unless they truly don’t want anything to do with you. It was only a question of time before the kid had to face that ugly truth.

Hèctor began to tremble harder, his teeth clattering as if he was freezing, filling the tiny bungalow with a sound that was almost neurotic. His fists began to clench and unclench, bones squeaking. He tried to repeat his daughter’s name, _Coco_ , but it was replaced by something else, a painful sound from somewhere in the back of his throat, between a whine and a moan; so small but with so much grief, hurt, deprivation and exhaustion merged together that Cheech could feel it exactly where his heart had once been.  
“Hey, _chico_ ,” he said, “It’s okay, Hèctor,”  
Clueless as to what else he could do, Chicharrón lay his hand on his _primo_ ’s head.

Cheech had no idea how long it had been since Hèctor had been touched by someone out of comfort. He’d never thought of asking, because he’d always thought it had been none of his concern or business. What a _primo magnífico_ he was…  
It must’ve been somewhat of a dry spell, though, for when he finally did touch him, Hèctor gave a jolt, his whole body tensing, his shoulders shooting up. It reminded Chicharrón of the time he had tried tuning a too old guitar, annoyance visible in his movement as he had tightened the strings, mercilessly wringing the pegs, paying too little attention to the heightening tell-tale pitch. Not realizing his mistake until the strings had snapped and uncoiled.

Hèctor heaved a shuddering, staggering breath, as if he was about to let out a scream.

Instead, he burst into tears. 

It was years, _years_ of pent up guilt and fears and bitterness, and now a disillusionment that was simply too great to bear that was unravelling, and Chicharrón kept his hand firmly on the trembling young man’s hair as he wept.  
This was good, Cheech told himself, it was necessary to let Hèctor grieve over the loss of his life: his daughter and his wife and the future he never got to have with them, a wound that he had tried so tirelessly to tend to, and which had now been torn open, fresh and bleeding and _hurting so badly_.  
“ _Está bien, mijo_ ,” Cheech mumbled over and over, cursing himself for having a place inside his chest where this damned _musico, esto probre chico_ , had always fitted right in. “ _Está bien_.” 

Slowly, slowly, Chicharrón felt Hèctor come back from wherever he had let himself curl up for the last four weeks. He felt his body untensing gradually as his sobbing became smaller gasps, and turning into an occasional sniffle. After a while, Hèctor shifted a bit in his chair, as to compose himself somewhat. Chicharrón let his hand fall to his side, knowing that his job was done, and made his way over to his hammock. A minute or two passed before Hèctor got up, much lighter on his feet. He tried to smooth out his clothes as if he hadn’t been coiled up in them for literal weeks, then gave up with a shrug and a sheepish, self-deprecating grin. 

Chicharrón sensed an instability in Hèctor’s posture, which didn’t quite surprise him, yet he still made a mental note to make sure that Hèctor wasn’t left alone to look after himself for the next while. 

“This has to stop, Hèctor,” he murmured as the revived skeleton tried to gather himself enough to go back to his shack. Hèctor stopped with his hand on the door, looking away,  
“I’m not gonna pick you up every time you hit a low.” Chicharrón received a crooked smile that didn’t reach above the cheekbones.  
“ _Grácias_ , Cheech,” Hèctor said sincerely before creaking open the door, “ _por todos_.”  
Cheech grunted in response, but the door had already been closed. 

Alone, Chicharrón tried to push away the image of the destroyed guitar, its strings uncoiled, and the stinging feeling it left him with.


End file.
